ed chiefly by a readiness
to prescribe calomel in any emergency. A younger and stronger man was
needed, as well as a man of more modern training. But even the most
brilliant practitioner of the hour could not have provided shelter and
nourishment, and without them his skill would have counted as nothing.
For three weeks there had been no rain, which was a condition of the
barometer not likely to last. Already grey clouds were gathering and
obscuring the blueness of the sky.

The vicar glanced upwards anxiously.

"When it comes," he said, "there will be a downpour, and a persistent
one."

"Yes," Mount Dunstan answered.

He had lain awake thinking throughout the night. How was a man to sleep!
It was as Betty Vanderpoel had known it would be. He, who--beggar though
he might be--was the lord of the land, was the man to face the strait of
these poor workers on the land, as his own. Some action must be taken.
What action? As he walked by his friend's side from the huts where the
dead men lay it revealed itself that he saw his way.

They were going to the vicarage to consult a medical book, but on the
way there they passed a part of the park where, through a break in the
timber the huge, white, blind-faced house stood on view. Mount Dunstan
laid his hand on Mr. Penzance's shoulder and stopped him,

"Look there!" he said. "THERE are weather-tight rooms enough."

A startled expression showed itself on the vicar's face.

"For what?" he exclaimed

"For a hospital," brusquely "I can give them one thing, at
least--shelter."

"It is a very remarkable thing to think of doing," Mr. Penzance said.

"It is not so remarkable as that labourers on my land should die at my
gate because I cannot give them decent roofs to cover them. There is a
roof that will shield them from the weather. They shall be brought to
the Mount."

The vicar was silent a moment, and a flush of sympathy warmed his face.

"You are quite right, Fergus," he said, "entirely right."

"Let us go to your study and plan how it shall be done," Mount Dunstan
said.

As they walked towards the vicarage, he went on talking.

"When I lie awake at night, there is one thread which always winds
itself through my thoughts whatsoever they are. I don't find that I can
disentangle it. It connects itself with Reuben S. Vanderpoel's daughter.
You would know that without my telling you. If you had ever struggled
with an insane passion----"

"It is not insane, I repeat,